Sneak Peek
NOTHING BUT TROUBLE
Emma
Why do wedding dresses have to be so white?
The question pings through my brain as I hurry down a sidewalk straight out of a Hallmark movie set and through the town that’s been my family’s home and passion for over a hundred years.
Away from the church, my family and friends.
And most of all from my remorseful, apologetic and cheating fiancé.
Oh, yeah. Far away from Blake Fox.
Hurried might not be the right word. It’s difficult to hurry wearing five pounds of satin and lace plus heels that pinch so tight I’m ready to lop off a baby toe just to ease the pain.
I refuse to take off the shoes because the agony distracts me from the ache in my chest. My eyes burn each time I think about the repercussions of bolting from my wedding five minutes before the ceremony is supposed to start.
The clock in the tower overlooking the town square a few blocks away begins to chime, matching the sick lurch in my stomach. The wedding is starting.
Without me.
I gather bunches of fabric and drape the dress’s train over one arm. My grandmother insisted on a dress with a train, mainly so my younger sister would have a reason to hold it, putting Riley on display for the good people of Foxridge.
“It worked for Princess Kate’s sister,” Grammy had commented drily. “Riley’s backside is just as worthy of going viral if you ask me.”
A car drives past, honks once. It isn’t every day that a bride hits the town in her wedding gown.
Sweat trickles between my shoulder blades despite the June breeze fluttering through the oak trees that line the street.
There’s not a cloud in the robin’s-egg-blue sky—good luck for the marriage, according to my grandmother.
Sure, sure. So much for positive vibes.
I send up a silent prayer the honking driver is no one I know.
Then again, everyone I know is sitting in pews a half dozen blocks behind me, waiting to witness the wedding of the century.
Three hundred guests assembled to watch the two most powerful families in Foxridge finally united by marriage. Or not.
I pick up the pace, wincing as my heel catches on a crack in the pavement and my ankle rolls. I’ve just righted myself when a giant SUV pulls up next to me.
“I’m fine,” I call, holding up a hand and keeping my eyes trained forward as I lift my dress higher off the ground.
“You’re going the wrong way, Emma.” The gravelly tone sending shivers down my bare arms.
The fabric drops from my hands as that voice ricochets through me. The toe of one shoe tangles in my wedding dress, and I trip and fall hard to the pavement. I manage to get myself to all fours, tears pricking the backs of my eyes, as much from embarrassment as the sting to my palms and knees.
I focus on drawing in a few deep breaths, but the air escapes my lungs when a pair of scuffed cowboy boots moves into my line of sight.
“Need a hand?”
“I’m fine,” I repeat, giving a little shake of my head. A thousand rattlesnakes could have me surrounded and I still wouldn’t accept help from Ethan Fox.
Pretending that him being here doesn’t affect me, I start to stand, then yelp when my right ankle screams in protest.
“You’re hurt.” Ethan wraps his hands around my arms and lifts me to my feet like I weigh nothing.
Glancing up through my lashes, I see what a decade away from Foxridge has done to the boy I used to know.
Broad shoulders, rangy frame, the kind of forearms that suggest he’s done actual work for a living.
Ethan is effortlessly masculine in a way Blake never managed.
His dark blond hair is longer, curling at the ends as it skims the collar of the crisp white dress shirt he wears under a suit jacket.
I know he’s well over six feet, and even in my heels he towers over me.
A few years older than me he’d been the cutest boy in high school.
Also the wildest by far, and now his looks are downright lethal.
Ten years gone, and my body still hasn’t gotten the memo that I’m supposed to be immune to him—which is the truly humiliating part, more than the dress or the dirt ground into my knees, since my pulse keeps tripping over itself just from the sound of him saying my name.
“I twisted an ankle.” I shrug out of his grasp and try not to put weight on my right leg. “Stupid shoes. I still don’t need your help.” I glare at him. “What are you doing here anyway? Blake said you weren’t coming back for the wedding, and you never RSVP’d.”
I feel more than see his smile, a slight softening around the corners of his stormy green eyes. “Last-minute change of plans.”
“You’re late.” Sweat beads on my forehead as the pain in my ankle begins to radiate up my leg. I need to get away from Ethan and take off these stupid shoes.
“Apparently, I’m not the only one.” He takes a step forward, then reaches around me to open the passenger-side door on his vintage Land Cruiser. “You don’t have to like me, Emma, but get in the car before you pass out from the pain of whatever you did to your ankle.”
I bite down on my lip to keep the tears at bay. Of all the people on the planet, the universe sent Ethan Fox to witness my human-dumpster-fire moment. Cool. Very cool. Excellent work, universe.
He’d starred in every fantasy I had between fourteen and seventeen, which by conservative count is somewhere north of a thousand.
I hadn’t even cared that bad-boy Ethan Fox barely acknowledged my existence, even though Blake and I had been friends since I’d thrown up on him our first day of kindergarten.
I told myself I outgrew that crush somewhere around senior prom.
Standing here with my heart slamming against my ribs, I’m beginning to think I just got better at lying to myself about it.
Ethan is three years older and a world apart from me. He made it clear in the sneering, searing way he had that he thought me nothing more than a silly, spoiled princess. Now I’m a runaway bride with a sprained ankle and dirt on her satin train. A walking magazine cover for Bad Decisions Monthly.
It grates on my nerves to have Ethan witness the most humiliating moment of my life.
Chances are good he’ll eventually congratulate his younger brother for escaping a lifetime shackled to the darling of the Sullivan family.
That thought pisses me off even more. My only fault was trusting a man who’d been kissing another woman’s mouth for who-knows-how-many months.
I carefully put my right foot on the ground, hoping the pain might have miraculously disappeared. Instead, a sharp burning causes me to whimper, and I turn without a word and hobble the few steps to the Land Cruiser.
To his credit, Ethan doesn’t say anything or try to help me. It’s like he can sense that my composure might splinter into a thousand pieces if he gets too close. I hate feeling fragile and hurt, and I hate Blake even more for his never-ending list of excuses.
Ethan shuts the door when I finally manage to get myself up into the SUV and gather the dusty fabric of my wedding gown’s train into the vehicle.
He’s left the Land Cruiser running, and I’m grateful for the cool air blowing from the vents. The shoe’s strap cuts into my flesh, but I don’t pull off the shoe. There’s a decent chance I’ll scream or throw up if I do, and I’m not doing either in front of Ethan.
“I’m guessing we aren’t headed back to the church,” he says as he pulls away from the curb.
“I bought Grammy’s house a few years ago. She lived—”
“I know where your grandmother lived.” Ethan’s knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. “I grew up here.”
Did I hurt his feelings? That feels like a stretch. Ethan made it crystal clear how much he looked down on Foxridge, and he left us all in his rearview mirror the first chance he got. But being the town cheerleader is in my blood. “The neighborhood has a lot of young families now. It’s nice.”
He gives me a noncommittal grunt in response, which feels appropriate. No sense in small talk when I’m running away from my wedding to his younger brother.
Blake promised he’d stall as long as possible, so I have about thirty minutes until my family descends on the Cape Cod-style house I purchased from my grandmother three years ago.
Grammy isn’t going to take the news well, no matter how justified I am. And I promised Blake I wouldn’t tell anyone the truth, which sucks for me.
“What did he do?” Ethan asks suddenly, like he can read my mind.
“It wasn’t Blake.” The words taste like week-old bread. “We’re better as friends.” I dial my face to wistful. “I’m just sorry it took me so long to realize it.”
That works. I sound regretful but not angry. People will accept the explanation. Everyone knows Emma Sullivan doesn’t lie.
“Is he gay?” Ethan asks conversationally.
My eyes widen. “No. We had a healthy... I mean, we’re both busy so it wasn’t exactly... Just no.”
“A gambling addiction? Internet porn?”
“Is it so hard to believe I made the choice?”
“Uh, yeah. You always do what’s expected, and the great joining of the Sullivans and the Foxes is something people around here have wanted forever.” He pulls up in front of my house. “You don’t have the balls to disappoint them.”
I don’t move as he exits the SUV and moves to my side. It’s like he’s clocked me with a sledgehammer. A man I haven’t seen for almost a decade—who’s never said a nice thing to me in all the years we’ve known each other—summed up my life in one sentence. Which doesn’t paint me in the best light.
Especially because it’s true.
“You don’t know me,” I say through clenched teeth as he opens the door. I move to push past him, a challenge with my ankle, but Ethan scoops me into his arms and stalks toward the front door.
“Is it locked?”
“No,” I mutter, “and put me down.”
“Once we’re inside.”